I nodded at him with gritted teeth and we darted down the sidewalk to my car while I pounded the unlock button on the car keys. “Get in, get in, get in!”

We were soaking wet by the time I slammed my door closed, water dripping down our hair and from our clothes all over the car seats. Brougham’s green sweater was almost black with rain. He smoothed a hand over his hair to slick it back out of his face. “Now what?” he asked as I started the engine, windshield wipers kicking into gear.

I’d kind of assumed he would want me to take him home. But now that I thought about it, of course he wouldn’t want that. Not if that’s what he had to go home to. But at the same time, I got the feeling that the last thing Alexander Brougham wanted was to be labeled a victim. He wouldn’t ask for help. He wouldn’t admit he hurt.

Well, if the Disneyland trick had worked once …

“Do you have to get back just yet?” I asked carefully. “There’s something I’d like to do.”

A rivulet of water dripped down Brougham’s forehead and along the bridge of his nose, and he pushed his hair back once more. It didn’t stay slicked back for long. “Sure, I’m not in a rush.”

Bingo. And in one sentence, I was framed as the one asking for a favor. Brougham didn’t need to reach out, or feel pitied.

“Where are we going?” Brougham asked as we crossed the border of the city and started down the highway. “This seems ominous.”

“Regret getting in a car with me now?”

“Now you mention it, I might just shoot my GPS location across to Finn.”

“He won’t make it in time to save you,” I said in a low, gravelly voice.

“You’re a massive creep, Phillips.”

I drove carefully, well aware of the dangers of highway driving in weather like this. There were barely any other cars on the road. Just us, the bruised sky, rain thundering on the roof of the car, and drowned fields of grass stretching into rolling hills.

Brougham grabbed my phone, which was plugged into the car’s USB port. “Can I be DJ?”

“Sure.”

He scrolled through Spotify and I tried not to take my eyes off the road, but it was hard not to glance sideways to try to catch his reaction. Music taste always felt so personal. Like if someone judged your playlist, they were really judging your soul.

“Dua Lipa…” he murmured to himself. “Travis Scott. Lizzo. Shawn Mendes. Oh, Harry Styles and Niall Horan? Where are the others?”

I felt like he was making fun of me, but it was hard to tell. “I’m sure Zayn and Louis are on there somewhere. I’m not a Liam fan.”

“Oh, come now, poor Liam.”